Were You Expecting A More Eloquent Response?
by SleeplessShinyOne
Summary: "Fun fact: they've only kissed once, and it was lovely and short but it tasted like blood and revenge and false promises and sweat. So they haven't kissed since then, and Marik lies awake thinking of it before he falls asleep." Oneshot. Thiefshipping. Rated for lots of cursing (specifically the F-word.) Not very fluffy, but it's a fluff-fic, if that's possible.


A/N: I finally give in and Thiefship already. It's one-thirty in the morning. What more do you want...?

Inspired by rampant ansgtthoughts and my freakin' life. Enjoy. I guess. Sorta. Review please. Yeah.

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**Were You Expecting A More Eloquent Response?_  
_**

* * *

_How okay would it be if when I tried to sleep_

_I just laid there with an **expression** on my face (you know, **that** one.)_

_and tried to remember how your lips felt...?_

* * *

Marik hangs up the phone after the semiawkward paragraph of silence between them both. He hadn't said what he was thinking during their talk. It was trivial and small, like grains of sand. Annoying, but not insistent.

He looks at the timer, his eyebrows raising another inch. How they managed to talk for fifty-six minutes, forty-nine seconds is frankly beyond him. He just knows the side of his face is red from the phone being clutched against it and the stupid thing's touchscreen is all fogged up and damp.

What had they talked about? They hadn't asked about each others' winter breaks- they never talked about their own lives. Why had he called, then? He doesn't even remember the goddamned conversation.

It's been three weeks since he's seen Yami Bakura in person last, and maybe that's why.

No. He'd called because he had known Bakura was bored and he didn't mind talking to him all that much.

Or maybe it's because...

There are a thousand reasons, and all of them are punctuated with the furious palpitations in Marik's chest when he sees the white-haired devil boy.

Stupid thief, he mutters, dropping his phone on the floor. He's probably way over his monthly data already and Bakura quite obviously doesn't give a shit about this fact.

_(Fun fact: Bakura doesn't own his cell phone. He took it from some display window and hacktivated it. It makes him reckless with his minutes and he doesn't really realize others pay for their phone calls.)_

_(amendment to Fun Fact: Bakura knows Marik hates the word "hacktivated" so he uses it on a weekly basis.)_

Bzzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzzzz.

Marik glances over at his cell, doing its skittery vibrate dance on the hard surface of his bedroom tiles. Three vibrates- a text. He leans over to fetch it.

-I still say it's not worth it. The old helmet works fine.-

Bakura again? He'd just been talking with- oh, never mind.

Marik presses keys rhythmically for a few moments. -But if I get my motorcycle repainted then the helmet HAS to match!-

Bakura takes too long to answer, he decides after seven and a half minutes. (not like he _counts _or anything on the time stamps clearly printed at the bottom of each text- that would be weird.) He stands up and paces his room and fixes his hair and then marches into the kitchen with his phone in his pajama pant pocket and makes a bowl of cereal, tossing the empty milk carton into the sink. He's midway through the crossword puzzle on the Cocoa Krispies box when-

Bzzzzz. B-

Marik grabs it mid-vibrate, sending milk droplets flying everywhere.

False alarm. Just Ishizu.

-Get some milk today! We're almost out.-

Marik has "You aren't my mo-" spelled out when-

Bzzz. His pounding heart skips into his mouth and he hits "OK" when he sees it- a new text from Bakura. The Ishizu-message is saved as a draft immediately.

-Meh.-

Marik angrily sets his phone down and sighs.

Eleven minutes for "Meh?"

-What are you so preoccupied with, anyway?-

He's determined to make Bakura say more than "meh."

-Nothing. Were you expecting a more eloquent response?-

-Yeah.-

-Like what?-

This from Bakura. _Huh. He isn't normally the pressing type._

-Dunno.-

-Come on. Tell me!-

_Are we flirting? This is weird_.

Marik's the one who pauses from texting now. He sighs softly, mentally dismissing the notion. Flirting is so...pitiful...and they totally aren't doing it, right?

Bzzzz.. Bzzzzz.. Bzzzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzz.

A... a call...? Could this possibly be happening?

"Do you exist soley to waste my roaming charges data?!" Marik grumbles, faking unenthusiasm.

It's Bakura, in case you haven't guessed.

_(Fun fact: neither of them ever answers with just "Hi." It's usually a long-winded clever insult.)_

"Maybe."

"So...why are you calling me?" Marik's pulse is relentlessly fast.

"Because I wanted to call you a fucking idiot."

"Why?" Marik's voice is breathess and tinged with curiousity. He winces at the sound of it- he's like... a goddamn schoolgirl with a crush or something.

"I'm not allowed to say "Meh" without being accosted?! Answer your damn door, too."

"What?"

Marik hangs up and shuffles to the peephole of his and Ishizu's apartment and looks out. There's a familiar chocolate-brown eye staring back at him.

"Open the goddamn door. Or I'll hacktivate you," Bakura shouts through the crack. He makes threats that are really fucking annoying.

Marik opens the door.

"Whatdaya want from me?!"

"I told you, Mr. McSpaceyass. You. Are. A. Fucking idiot." Bakura elbows him as he slides past to enter the apartment and immediately flops on Marik's couch, drawling, "Oy, have any food?"

_(Fun fact: they've only kissed once, and it was lovely and short but it tasted like blood and revenge and false promises and sweat. So they haven't kissed since then, and Marik lies awake thinking of it before he falls asleep.)_

_Bakura can still throw him off more than anyone, though. His eyes could melt steel, or something else super badass. Marik would never tell him he thinks they're unabashedly beautiful in every way. His hair is spiky enough to get him stopped at airports for hours and yet it's the silkiest thing Marik's ever run his fingers through. His mouth and tongue are cruel and sadistic and when he's smiling things are usually deadly and his lips are so scratchy and dry-looking-_

_yet that kiss-!_

_Perfect..._

Marik chatters aimlessly with the stupid idiot and inside he's breaking. He can't take it.

"The hell's wrong with you?" Bakura squints at him perplexedly.

_Profanity's our __common language, _Marik thinks. And then suddenly he can't think anymore.

"Shut up and.. kiss me." He doesn't know why he blurts it out clumsily, the most butchered smooth line ever, as he's leaning over, or why Bakura's suddenly doing exactly that. The paler boy's hands are on his shoulders and suddenly oh God _nothing fucking matters_ anymore, as Bakura would put it, nothing matters but the edges of space between their lips that move and diminish as the kiss deepens.

"I think I like you," is what Bakura's tilting head and moving lips say softly without actually speaking. "I think this is actually sort of okay," he adds verbally, quietly.

"I think **we** are sort of actually okay," Marik mumbles into his love's mouth and his love nods and Marik's heart bursts with something new because there's such thing as **us **now.

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_La Fin_


End file.
